Joe Allen

Joe Allen

“We ruined him, you know, we all did. We spoiled him rotten.”

“Him” was Joe Allen, always called by both first and last names, never just Joe. He was Larry’s cousin, just a few years older than Larry himself. “We” was Larry’s mother, along with her sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews. Joe Allen had been born a year after his oldest brother died of pneumonia at age 19. The oldest boy—a straight “A” student at a prestigious college, a good boy. Joe Allen was his replacement.

“Joe Allen was so pretty when he was little—those blue eyes and blond curls—the neighbors used to come and ask to borrow him for the afternoon,” Larry’s mother said. “And he played football for Bear Bryant at Alabama, you know.”

With all that attention and adulation, it was hard for Joe Allen to be just a regular Joe who had a regular job and regular hours. Maybe that’s why he wound up as a Dade County cop. His beat was keeping tabs on Mafia guys, mostly parolees, who would blow into Miami for a few days of fun at hotels on the Beach, and at strip joints, and illegal card games, and who knows what. And Joe Allen was right there with them. Out ‘till dawn, liquored up, dealing in dope and fenced goods and hot ladies. He flamed out, of course, and died in his fifties, long before Larry’s mother died.

“It’s such a shame,” she said. “But we ruined him. We all did.”